


The Artist

by Setcheti



Series: The Last Chance Diner [1]
Category: Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Other Fandoms Not Mentioned in Tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setcheti/pseuds/Setcheti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn’t get the feeling the guy was moping because he wanted someone to ask – he got the feeling the guy was moping because he felt like it and there was no one around to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist

**Author's Note:**

> jaclcfrost on Tumblr said, “Forget coffee shop AUs, there need to be more random diner in the middle of nowhere at one in the morning AUs.” So this one is for jaclcfrost.

The big blond guy was slumped at the counter drinking coffee and playing aimlessly with his fork in the syrupy red plate that had held a piece of cherry pie an hour ago. He was a younger guy, but Dean didn’t get the feeling that he was moping because he wanted someone to ask – he got the feeling the guy was moping because he felt like it and there was no one around to stop him. Which was fine by Dean. It was a dead night, and mopey or not it was nice to have somebody actually in the diner – meant he was working for his money, even though this guy wasn’t making very much work. And he’d already paid for the pie, and his coffee, so Dean wasn’t worried the guy was lingering because he was broke. He’d ridden up on a motorcycle a little after midnight, which, considering how far out in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere the Last Chance Diner was, was interesting all by itself. There weren’t any gas stations for a pretty long stretch, and the bike had sounded more like an old Eagle than a big, road-hungry Harley with a highway-spanning gas tank. But then, depressed guys did stupid shit like ride out into the desert on their street bike, he wouldn’t do it again if he ran out of gas and had to push the bike instead of riding it.

Dean went over to refill the guy’s coffee, and that was when he noticed the plate. The guy hadn’t been playing aimlessly, he’d been drawing; there was an actual picture in the congealing syrup, what looked like a street scene with buildings and cars. Dean whistled. “Okay, there’s something I don’t see every day.”

“Hmm?” The guy looked up, blue eyes a little bit startled, then quirked an embarrassed little smile. “Oh, that. I’m just…thinking. Drawing helps me think.” He put the fork down and straightened out of his slump. “You’re probably wanting to close up, huh? I’m sorry, I’ll…”

“No, no you’re fine,” Dean quickly reassured him. “I just gave you more coffee, didn’t I? And we’re open ‘til five, anyway.” He took another look at the plate. “That’s just…I mean, I don’t know what to say, man. You an artist?”

The guy made a face. “Wanted to be, once.”

Dean made a point of looking back at the plate, then raised a dark eyebrow. “Think you’ll want to be again?”

That made the guy laugh. “All the time, actually. I just…can’t. People expect things from me. Art isn’t one of them.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes.” Did he ever. It was why, even after almost a year out here in the middle of nowhere, working for a boss he only saw once a month if that, Dean still had no desire to return to civilization. “You got a family?”

“Nope.” The guy took a drink of the coffee. “Haven’t had for a long time. You?”

“Had one, they’re all gone now.” And he could actually say it without flinching now, too; he was proud of himself. “You still in the service?” The guy looked surprised, and Dean laughed at him. “Dude, dog tags.”

“Oh, yeah.” That actually made the guy smile. “No, not anymore. Wearing them is just a habit, I guess.”

“It’s not a bad one,” Dean observed. “Some guys get tattoos.”

“Yeah. I always kind of wanted one of those.” Dean’s expression must have begged the question, because the guy made the face again, good humor falling away. “I tried to get one – even tried to give myself one. They won’t…stay.”

“Well that sucks.” Dean frowned at him, then fished a dingy notepad out from underneath the counter and found an even dingier pencil to go with it. “Show me. What kind of tattoo did you want?”

The guy looked surprised by that, but then he shrugged and took the pencil and started to draw. Dean got himself a cup of coffee and leaned on the counter to watch, fascinated. The guy could really draw. The tattoo quickly took shape on the palm-sized square of paper: a gun and an old battle helmet twined with a thorny rose, surrounded by a ring of names in flowing script. “I tried more than once to get this,” he said, shading the barrel of the gun with deft lines. “But it just won’t stay.”

“I’ve heard of guys whose skin breaks down the ink too fast,” Dean told him even though he hadn’t really, studying the drawing. Not just any tattoo, this one meant something – or probably it meant a lot of things. “You tried just inking it on?” The guy raised an eyebrow, and Dean shrugged. “I know they make ink for it, but hell, just use a Sharpie. Draw it on, when it fades draw it on again. Or get some of that stuff tattoo parlors use, it’s some kind of paper they put the picture on and then they rub it with something and the picture goes onto your skin.”

“I’d never heard of that, but it would probably work,” the guy admitted. He actually looked kind of happy about it. “I appreciate the advice, thanks.”

“No problem.” Dean had considered asking the guy what was bothering him, but he decided not to. Sometimes talking about it just made you feel worse, especially if it was a problem you couldn’t do anything to fix. He’d never been able to get his brother to understand that. “If you pass back through, stop and show me how it worked.”

“I’ll do that.” The grin the guy gave him this time was happier, and they talked about tattoos and aimless things while the guy finished his coffee, and then he left, roaring back off into the desert night on the old motorcycle, headed for who knows where but probably planning to pick up a Sharpie somewhere along the way. Dean cleaned up what little mess there was, then washed a few windows just because he was getting paid, and then he sat down and watched the desert do its thing under the cool light of the full moon until the sun started to rise and it was time to close up. He couldn’t say he was happy, but he was content. Which was something he’d honestly never expected to be, so that was good enough for him.  


End file.
